Oh snap!! I’m back!!
Since my new job is centered around blogs and bloggy goodness, how crappy of an employee would I be if I didn’t even keep up MY OWN blog? So I’ll try (and probably fail) to update it every now and then.
Until then, this is a sample blog post I needed to write when I was interviewing for my new position. I wrote it around Dec. 18, before the Mayan apocalypse and our move to Baton Rouge. Hopefully the timing doesn’t throw you off. Enjoy.
It’s the end of my dog’s world as he knows it
If the predictions are true and the expiration of the Mayan calendar destroys Earth as we know it on Friday, I suppose that could be worse.
My dog, Hartley, might disagree with that statement, though.
As my wife, Katie, and I spend our nights and weekends bubble-wrapping plates, taping up boxes and sorting through a medley of objects we’ve gathered in our more than six years of living in Georgia, our 60-pound husky, shepherd mix sits and pouts, counting down to what I’m sure he believes is his inevitable doom.
Weeks ago our nearly 3-year-old pup’s only concerns were how many treats and belly scratches he’d get that day, whether his best friend Jesse — a lab mix who lives next door — would be outside when he, too, went for a walk and whether he’d take up three-quarters of the bed or be generous and use half of it to sleep. Now, his life is in ruins.
I could see the fear in his half-blue, half-brown eyes when I came home holding the first of what would become dozens of boxes. Panic-stricken, Hartley activated his fight-or-flight response and promptly ran to his bed and hid, distraught over what the future might bring.
Days later, bubble wrap made its first appearance, glasses and books were stowed into cardboard boxes and those boxes, along with their plastic bin counterparts, consumed space in the dining room.
Meanwhile, a pair of frightened eyes watched these activities take place, and Hartley responded in the only way he knew how — he squeaked.
It started as a dull moan at first, a means to convey displeasure and annoyance more than anything. But as the weeks went on, the moan turned to high-pitched squeaks, signaling an “SOS” call to anyone who
could hear his cries of distress.
An increased allotment of treats and fresh air and open space at the dog park did little to stall his anxiety. His squeaking continued, reaching notes so high that extra bubble wrap was needed to keep
our wine glasses from shattering.
So Hartley sits and pouts, waiting for the day his world as he knows it will end and is changed for good. While I’ve assured him that he’ll still be able to sleep 18 to 20 hours per day, chase squirrels and
birds up trees and run until his heart’s content at dog parks in Baton Rouge, the squeaks continue.
Maybe the Mayans weren’t predicting the end of Earth. Maybe they were signaling the distress an overzealous, high-energy dog would experience thousands of years in the future.
Like Earth will surely see on Dec. 22, I hope Hartley will soon realize the end is not near and the sun will come up on his first morning in Baton Rouge, bringing birds and squirrels to chase and a big
backyard for running.
Until then, I’ll spoil him with treats and belly scratches to keep what little sanity he has remaining.